My Anxiety

I’m tired.  I’m tired of being sick.  I’m tired of drugs and tests and needles and worrying.

I’m tired of… people… believing my front.

I’m tired of people trying to talk to me, plan with me, make arrangements, involve me in things… as if they think I have the capacity to even discuss anything right now.  But they do think that.  Because they don’t see me curled in a ball.  They see me handling my shit… so why shouldn’t I handle more shit?

My anxiety doesn’t let me let anyone see me in a ball.

My anxiety doesn’t let me let you see me collapse on the floor in the corner of the kitchen and sob for twenty minutes when I get home every night.

My anxiety doesn’t let me let you see me jerk awake hour after hour through the night with stress dreams.

My anxiety doesn’t let me let you see me sink into my chair and pick at the pre-made food I didn’t have the energy to prepare, and watch TV because I just can’t do anything else.

My anxiety doesn’t let me let you see me compulsively surfing the web, buying classroom supplies, researching teaching strategies, downloading printable labels, comparing dry-erase marker brands, debating over colors of ink for my permanent markers, for hours, until Sir snaps at me and takes my phone for not obeying when he tells me to let it go, because he forgets, for a moment, that I can’t, I can’t, I can’t… stop.

My anxiety doesn’t let me let you see that I compose myself every morning from a tangled pile of laundry in a laundry basket I filled from the drier a week ago.

My anxiety doesn’t let me let you see that I sit on the edge of my bed in the morning with my head in my hands for fifteen minutes before I can make myself stand up and go to the shower.

My anxiety doesn’t let me let you see that I didn’t eat yesterday… that I walked to my closet in my classroom today to get my coat and purse… fifteen times… in 2 hours… and kept getting “distracted” by one more thing I had to get done.

Because I couldn’t come home… couldn’t collapse on the kitchen floor… and sob for twenty minutes… and eat pre-made food… and watch TV… and fall into stress dreams to wake up and sit for fifteen minutes before showering and pawing clothes from the bottom of the laundry basket to go to work and present my front and worry all the time that everyone secretly hates me.

My anxiety doesn’t let me let you see it.

But it’s there.

And I’m tired.

I’m tired.

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